when America sings for you (will they know what you overcame)
by hello pretty bird
Summary: Isolt is in the middle of the ocean, on a journey to start a new life when the nightmares push her over the edge.


**For**

Quidditch League round 2

Falmouth Falcons

Beater 1

Write a story set near the water.

Optional- (word) proof, (color) light grey

Word Count- 1234

Warning- suicidal thoughts

* * *

 _There's a flash of dark curls, a quick movement she can barely see. When she turns her head, it's gone; she is alone._

Isolt's bare feet fall upon the slick deck, and she slips slightly. It doesn't matter. Her mind is still consumed by her nightmares. She feels so numb with each step she takes that she barely even notices the salty spray that tickles her pale skin.

"Just a dream," she murmurs, but she can't quite bring herself to believe it.

Gormlaith has found her before. What's to stop her from finding her now? In the middle of the ocean, aboard the _Mayflower,_ Isolt has nowhere hide from her aunt. The cruel woman would tear the whole ship apart if it meant exacting her revenge.

" _Elias Story?"_

 _Sharp nails dig into Isolt's cheek. Warm blood trickles from the fresh gash, bathing her skin in glossy crimson. Isolt turns, heart racing, desperate to catch a glimpse of her aunt, but, again, all she sees is movement out of the corner of her eye._

" _Elias Story is a ghost, dear child," her aunt cackles. "And soon, you will be too."_

She had hoped some fresh air would chase away her nightmares and clear her head. All that's changed is that the pitch black of the cabins below has given way to a light grey sky and raging waters. The fact that she is still alive should be proof enough that Gormlaith has not found her, but her chest continues to ache as though an invisible hand is clenching around her rapidly beating heart.

Her slender fingers dig in her pocket. They brush against her stolen wand, but she does not bother with it. There is no magic in the world that can bring her peace of mind now. Besides, her aunt had used that wand for so many wicked things that she doubts it could be used for good at all.

Her short nails bump against the golden Gordian Knot brooch deep within her pocket. It's all she has left of her mother, and she feels its comfort wash over her. As reassuring as its subtle pressure against her thigh is, it isn't enough.

It will never be enough.

She pulls her hand out of her pocket before pushing it through her dark, boyishly short hair. It doesn't matter that she has crafted this alias and lived as Elias Story to escape Gormlaith; it doesn't matter that she is crossing an ocean to escape that dark and dreary life. All she has is proof that her aunt will never leave her alone—even sleep cannot shelter her from the evil witch—until Isolt is dead.

Swallowing dryly, she approaches the railing of the ship, her eyes fixed upon the horizon. The sunrise tries to peek through the pale grey clouds, and rays of orange penetrate the grim sky. Most days, Isolt would find comfort in the beauty of the natural world. Today, she has other things on her mind.

A chill that has nothing to do with the cold morning air grips her body, and she shudders. For several moments, all she can do is keep her gaze straight ahead, praying the horrible thoughts will go away.

They don't, and she isn't surprised. She has felt this shadow hanging over her long before she set foot on the _Mayflower._ There is no escape, no freedom. It will be kinder to end her life on her own terms than to wait around for her aunt to stalk her like prey, terrorizing her before finally having enough mercy inside her cold heart to put Isolt out of her misery.

No one will even notice that she's gone. If they do, it won't matter; Elias Story doesn't exist, after all.

Isolt bites her bottom lip, contemplating. She knows that it's for the best, that it's the only way she will ever be free from this endless pursuit and becoming an abused prisoner once again. She will not allow herself to become a victim again.

Her gaze shifts to the violent waters below. Unforgiving waves continue to slam against the ship. Taking a deep breath, Isolt removes her coat, tossing it to the side. Once again, she puts her hand in her pocket, removing the wand and brooch from within and holding tightly to them, unable to bring herself to discard them. She knows she is stalling—for the courage to act or a change of heart, she isn't sure.

Rather than tossing her precious belongings carelessly as she had done with the coat, she plucks a cloth handkerchief next and takes special care wrapping the wand and brooch. Satisfied that they have been handled respectfully, she sets them aside. Someone will undoubtedly come across them, and they will have questions. But this is not her concern.

Isolt exhales deeply and grips the railing, her stomach growing acidic. If she doesn't act soon, the others aboard the _Mayflower_ will wake. Though their intentions will be good, the last thing she needs is for someone to try to intervene.

"Just like climbing the trees back home," she tells herself as she pulls herself onto the railing. "Now, let go."

But she cannot listen to herself. Her body fights the urge to give up, and she grips the railing until her knuckles turn white and her fingers begin to cramp. Maybe it's the only way out, but she can't bring herself to do it. In the back of her mind, she has known it would come to this. Isolt has always loved life too much to just give it up.

"Let go," she whispers again. "Gormlaith will find you."

She wears a defiant smirk the moment the sentence leaves her lips. _Let her find me_ , she thinks. _I've started this journey, and I will see it through._

"Get down from there, lad!"

The sudden voice behind her startles her, and she loses her balance. By some miracle, she is saved from plummeting into the ocean below when strong hands grip her shoulders and roughly haul her back onto the deck.

"It's no time for a swim," a bond man tells her firmly, scolding her like she is little more than a naughty child. "Could've gotten yourself killed!"

Isolt grabs her wrapped belongings, quickly shoving them in her pocket. She hangs her head, muttering a quick apology.

The man chuckles. "No need to apologize. Just didn't want you to die when the new world is right there."

She looks up, following his gaze. Her breath hitches in her chest, and it takes several seconds for her to lungs to remember how to work. Faint grey-white fog hangs over it like a shroud, but Isolt can see the distinct outline of land. Her heart flutters with excitement, tickling her insides. "Is that real?"

With another chuckle, the stranger nods. "Aye. It better be," he says. "Otherwise we've come all this way for nothing. I would hate for that to…"

He continues to ramble on, but Isolt is no longer listening. She cannot fight the smile on her face, nor can she stop the triumphant laugh that escapes her lips. It has been so long since she has felt hope, and it is as intoxicating as she imagines wine would be.

The new world is so close that she can almost taste it. This alone is proof enough that she has done right in choosing to survive.


End file.
